


Limerance

by whatisausername



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Clothed Sex, Dirty Talk, M/M, Minor Plot Spoilers, Outdoor Sex, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 10:35:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3116924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatisausername/pseuds/whatisausername
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I thought you were the enigma, not me.”</p><p>Dorian did laugh at that, a breathy, distracted laugh that Dragan felt against his lips--their faces were closer than he’d realised.  The mage reached into Dragan's hands, prying the dagger easily away and tossing it off to the side. It landed upon the remaining folded blanket with an almost inaudible thud, which the Inquisitor didn’t hear anyways, too focused on the hand sliding up his bare forearm.</p><p>“I’m still making up my mind about you.” Dorian breathed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Limerance

For a brief moment, the world was lit with shocking blue; he blinked, and it was gone. Seconds later, the sky gave a mighty roar, thunder rolling and causing the ground beneath his feet to shake, the resonance sinking into the earth, into his bones, to join the damp chill which had already settled within his core.

 He trudged on, the mud loose and slick beneath the soles of his boots, and the rain rendering him half-blind. If not for the violent, angry frothing of the sea to his left, he would have lost his bearings long ago.

 “Dragan!” The Inquisitor heard a voice, muffled by the sound of the sky’s revolt. _Dorian’s voice_ \--he thought, feeling a bit of relief knowing at least one of his companions was alright-- _thank the Maker_.

 A gloved hand twisted in the thick material of Dragan’s collar, and before he could respond, he felt himself being dragged up the mountainside, before being hurled onto a stony outcropping with a grunt of exertion from the other mage. The Inquisitor stumbled, before catching his footing and blinking away the rain, just enough to see the Tevinter tug the staff’s blade from where it  had been thrust into the ground, no doubt for leverage as he ascended the muddy path. _Clever_ , Dragan thought, though he rejected the idea of making his admiration known--Dorian’s ego was already insufferable, and he wouldn’t encourage it. Instead, he ran his leather-clad hand through damp, black locks, out of his eyes so as to glimpse around.

 A cave. Sweet Maker, he was going to kiss Dorian.

 The two stumbled into the rocky shelter, panting, dripping, and revelling in finding refuge from the heavens’ onslaught. The Inquisitor braced himself against a wall, catching his breath and rubbing at his shoulder, which was somewhat sore from the fall.

 “The Storm Coast,” the Tevinter began, hands on his knees as he, too, sought breath, “So aptly named.” He rose to, wringing out his drenched robes and smirking.

 “Honestly, if you look at the maps, most of this area has been assigned the most delightfully literal names--Small Grove. Great Cove. Large Mountain, Smaller-Yet-Still-Noteworthy Mountain.” Dorian clicked his tongue, chuckling, “You Fereldens are so charmingly forthright.”

 The Inquisitor snorted, unbuckling and shedding his armor, made heavy from the weight of the rain, until he was left in only a fur-lined tunic and his dark leather breeches.

 “I’m glad you find me and my people so amusing.” Dragan quipped back, draping his armor over a rock that jutted from the wall. He looked to Dorian, who tossed his drape haphazardly to the other man. On reflex, the Inquisitor caught it before it could smack into his face, and flashed the man an amused glare.

 “Me too. And to believe I feared the South would be boring, of all things. Also, don’t bother being careful with that. The velveteen is all but ruined, at this point.”

 “It will make a fine kitchen rag, then.” Dragan responded, shaking his head as he draped it over the rock. He stepped back, looking around, and spotting what looked like relatively dry supplies, shoved behind a well-placed slab of stone, shielded from the elements. He was impressed, as always. Dragan never ceased to marvel at how the Inquisition had managed to pull together so many intelligent, competent, and interesting people--they were all invaluable to him, invaluable to the world that had been torn apart. It did not ease his mind to know that they all relied on him.

 Following his gaze, Dorian cleared his throat, kneeling before the pile of supplies, and shifting the stack of threadbare blankets to open the small wooden crate.  

 “Lucky, yes? I do believe someone was here before us-” he wrenched the lid off, lip curling in disgust as he plucked up a piece of partially molded fruit, and tossed it out the mouth of the cave, “-though, not any time recently, I’d assume.” The mage continued to rummage through the crate, setting aside anything he deemed useful--a candle, a dagger, a folded piece of parchment, and what looked to be a bundle of dried elfroot. He then proceeded to dump the rest outside, mostly the expired remnants of whatever foodstores had been left behind.

 “Anything we can use to start a fire?” Dragan came, leaning down to swipe the folded parchment from the ground. “Varric and Cassandra are still out there. They might be able to find us.” He unfolded the paper--a map of the Coast drawn in charcoal. With a swipe of his thumb, he smudged one of the lines, smearing the black across the page, before looking back to Dorian, who had busied himself with breaking apart the crate.

 “Unlikely. Those two are sharp enough, and if they were looking they’d have found us by now. I’d wager they made it back to camp. They were headed that direction, when the darkspawn burst through.” The mage said, sweeping away the ashes of a previous fire, and placing one of the tattered blankets in a bundle in their place. He then piled on the broken bits of crate, and conjured a small flame which sparked to life at his fingertips.

 “I think you just wanted to get me alone.” Dragan teased as he watched with interest, his eyes never tearing from the mage’s fingers as he ignited the cloth. He balled up the map, tossing it atop the pile which was slowly being consumed by flames which licked eagerly at the edges of the wood.

 Dorian tensed, biting back a small grin. In a mock sigh of defeat, he closed his fist around the flame to extinguish it.

 “You’ve caught me. I devised it all--the storm, the darkspawn.”  The mage replied, words dramatic but oozing sarcasm, as he cast a glance over his shoulder. “All to get you alone.”

 “Typical Tevinter scheming. I’ll have to tell Mother Giselle she was right about you.”

 "You are deceptively witty, considering that grim expression of yours." Dorian snorted, chuckling and shaking his head before tapering off into a sigh, looking back down to the ground. The fire had begun to spread to the wood now, splintering and crackling in a pleasant contrast to the sound of rain on stone only several feet away. Taking a seat on the cold floor and leaning against the cave wall, the Inquisitor grabbed for the dagger that Dorian had set aside, fiddling with it idly between calloused fingertips as he pondered his 'grim expression'. 

“What did she say about me, anyway?” Came the mage suddenly, settling a few inches away from the other man, and savoring with a shiver the way the growing fire’s warmth crept up his skin, chasing away the chill of the elements that had usurped his bones.

A small sigh, and a glance in the other’s direction, and Dragan watched the fire as he considered his words, pretending to be mesmerized but unable to stave off the smile that curled at one corner of his mouth.

“Isn’t it obvious? You’re a Tevinter. She said people would talk about you. . .”  _about us, together_ , he wanted to add, but feared the awkwardness it may bring. Mother Giselle had been mistaken--nothing had happened between them, and that was a topic Dragan had taken tremendous effort to avoid, both in his interactions with others as well as his internal musings. He was no good with attraction, hated the ill feelings in the pit of his stomach that it brought. He had viciously denied the existence of any more than friendly exchanges, in a way that seemed only to convince the Mother he was lying through his teeth, rather than indicating his own discomfort on the subject--ironic, as the latter was the sole culprit.

“You don’t seem the sort to care about that, though.” The Inquisitor finally finished. The mage seemed pensive for a moment, pressing his knuckle to his lip as he thought.

“In terms of what they say about me, it’s true that I don’t care one way or another.” Dorian tilted his chin, a smug little smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I only worry when people aren’t talking at about me at all. You see, I’m not exactly the most uncontroversial figure in the world. In fact, I’d say more people are certain about the ‘Herald of Andraste’ than they are about me.”

Dragan smiled, looking to Dorian with one brow arched. “What about the Chantry?”

“Bah. Inconsequential, presently.” The mage dismissed instantly.

“And what about  _you_ ?”

This brought the man to a pause as he looked to Dragan. After so long dodging each other’s eyes, they finally locked gazes, unwavering as Dorian seemed to stare into him, if such a thing were possible. They remained like that for what felt like an eternity, the heat pooling in the Inquisitor’s stomach, the tension smothering him like smoke. At long last, the mage clicked his tongue, his features softening into a gently bemused expression, a trace of fascination still lit in his eyes.

“You’re…  _something_ .” Dorian finally concluded.

Dragan wanted to laugh, but he didn’t.

“I thought you were the enigma, not me.”

Dorian did laugh at that, a breathy, distracted laugh that Dragan felt against his lips--their faces were closer than he’d realised. All the previous mental and verbal dodging that Dragan had done to avoid coming to terms with his obvious attraction to the mage was rendered obsolete, as Dorian reached into his hands, prying the dagger easily away and tossing it off to the side. It landed upon the remaining folded blanket with an almost inaudible thud, which the Inquisitor didn’t hear anyways, too focused on the hand sliding up his bare forearm.

“I’m still making up my mind about you.” He breathed, before closing the space between them.

In a moment, Dorian was kissing him; in the next, Dragan was gripping him and kissing back. At first, he wanted to pull away, the mage’s lips feeling like coals against him, burning and sharp. A dozen reasons to stop surged to the front of his mind, half of them valid, yet none of them doing a thing to keep him from grabbing the other man’s waist, the well-fitted leather allowing him to feel the supple muscles of his abdomen flex as Dorian guided himself into the Inquisitor’s lap. A tongue slid against Dragan’s lips, and this time he didn’t resist for even a moment, allowing the other man’s mouth dominate and deepen the kiss. A sudden hand tugging at the back of his hair made Dragan recoil with a gasp, before he growled and pressed his lips roughly back against the mage’s in retribution.

With a final nip at Dorian’s lower lip, Dragan finally pulled away, licking his lips and tasting the other man on them, a realization that sent a shudder down his spine, and made the fire in his belly twist up tight. Oh, Maker, he wanted Dorian, and by the way the mage was looking at him, eyes now impossibly dark with want, he could finally be certain that the feeling was mutual. He pushed the man down against the dank stone floor of the cave, warmed considerably by the fire, and mashed their mouths together once more. They remained like that, the kiss messy and uncoordinated, their breath hotly mingling every time they broke apart to attack at a different angle. To one side the fire crackled, to the other, the storm raged. Dragan didn’t give a Mabari’s arse about either; he just wanted to ravage the man in front of him and he was very well going to, if the way Dorian was unfastening his breeches was anything to go by.

“You are turning out to be  _much more_ -” the mage emphasized his words with a firm slide of his palm against the sizeable bulge of the Inquisitor’s clothed cock, “-than I bargained for, My Lord Inquisitor.”

Dragan moaned, half from Dorian’s hand working him languidly through the leather, and half from how good the title sounded rolling off his tongue, slurred and breathy and downright obscene. He inhaled sharply when the man’s fingers moved to tug the untied laces, loosening them enough to free the man’s shaft, swelling and dripping and aching to be touched. Dorian bit his lip, hand pausing as his gaze dragged shamelessly across it several times over. There was a swell of pride in Dragan’s chest, but his face burned, so he looked away, frustrated.

“Just going to stare at it all evening?” He muttered, glancing to Dorian’s face once more, and feeling the burning intensify under the mage’s scrutinizing gaze.

“I hadn’t planned to, but it  _is_ rather nice to look at.”

Dragan grunted at the mage’s unfaltering cheekiness, “You need to stop talking.”

“Perhaps you should make me.” Dorian challenged, an amused glint in his eyes. Dragan realised this was the reaction Dorian had wanted, and his cock twitched in response. The mage likes it rough, apparently.  

“You don’t want me to hold back, do you?” He cautioned. It wasn’t really a question.

“There’s not a thing I want less, Lord Inquisitor.” The lewd title once more. Maker, Dragan would never be able to hear it again without his blood rushing south.

There was a pause between them,  moment that hung in the air too long, heady and stifling and singing with static, before they all but lunged at one another. All pretense was then flung out the mouth of the cave and sent tumbling down into the roiling waters that pummelled the shoreline with only a fraction of the fierceness with which the Inquisitor shoved the Tevinter back against the floor. Dragan rutted their hips together and tore through the buckles on Dorian’s armor like teeth through flesh. The two spared no time to properly undress, the mage’s armor unbuckled and hanging loosely from his shoulders, and his breeches tugged down just enough for Dragan to wrap a hand around his cock, stroking him to hardness as his the man’s nails curled into the firm muscles of his back.

It was almost too much to bear, both of them barely keeping up with the furious pace of the other, their bodies too charged and alight with potent lust, and their minds too fogged for logic or inhibition. Dorian rolled Dragan off of him, rising quickly to his feet and twisting his hand in the man’s collar once more, dragging him to his feet and walking him quickly back until he knocked against the hard stone wall. The Inquisitor had no time to question him, before he was being kissed roughly, bruisingly, a sharp pain in his lower lip as Dorian took it between his teeth, before releasing and dragging his hot mouth lower and lower down his exposed chest, his stomach, his hips, until it was wrapped around the Inquisitor’s cock and sucking hard.

Dragan threw his head back with a groan upon feeling his shaft, heavy on the mage’s tongue. He headbutted against the stone, yet was unable to care about the blossoming pain, as his fingers grasped along the wall, seeking out purchase yet finding none, and instead settling on grasping Dorian’s hair, tugging just enough to make the mage groan around his girth. After a moment of relishing in the slide of his cock past those gorgeous, swollen lips, Dragan gave one last thrust, before pulling the mage from him, and whirling him around so that his front was pressed thoughtlessly against the damp stone wall; Dorian struggled to catch his breath between the moans elicited by the Inquisitor’s fingers working in him, twisting and stretching as his slickened cock hung between his legs, stiff and dripping with precum.

“Like this, or do you-”

“Maker, just _fuck me_ _already_ .” Dorian hissed, sweat-dampened brow pressed against the stone that was now far too cold against his searing flesh. The Inquisitor wasted no time in complying, lining himself up and sliding his cock inside, hands grasping the mage’s hips that shuddered beneath his palms. They both winced, Dorian more from pain, and Dragan more from the sudden tightness around him. He resisted it--the urge to push further, to pound into the mage and take him the way he knew he wanted--for just as long as it took Dorian to adjust. When the mage bucked back against him, Dragan’s palms smoothed up the Tevinter’s muscular back once, before he wrapped his arm around the taut, firm waist, and sheathed himself completely. Dorian cried out, something cursed in Tevene, his hands searching for something to hold onto on the stone wall, but again finding nothing. He instead braced one arm against it, shielding his forehead from banging against the stone with the brutal pace with which he was being taken, as the other hand gripped onto Dragan’s forearm until his knuckles were white.

The pull of the mage’s body on his cock was maddening as Dragan pounded him ruthlessly into the wall, both of them reeling with how wonderfully wicked it felt, and how much better that made it. For the first time, they were thankful for the storm, the gusting winds and pelting rain dampening the shuddering groans that echoed off the walls of their small cave. Neither of them were quiet, didn’t need to be, with the way the thunder sounded like the sky was being torn apart with each bout. After a moment, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh halted, with an almost pitiful hiss from Dorian, the mage looking to the Inquisitor from the sides of his eyes. Dragan said nothing, only breathing hard as he flipped Dorian over, before pushing back in immediately, his large, tanned arms wrapping around the man and hoisting him up.

“Wha-- _Oh_ .” The mage’s eyes rolled back in his head, a moan torn from his throat as he felt himself stretched once more by that thick shaft, so full he could barely think, much less say anything coherent that wasn’t something along the lines of ‘Maker, yes, harder’. He ran his fingers through Dragan’s hair, tugging and tousling the thick black locks, still damp from rain and now sweat. In response to one particularly deep thrust, he pulled too hard, causing the other man to grunt against his throat, where he had been littering bruises and bites across the skin there. Dragan dragged his lips across Dorian’s collarbone, to his shoulders, wind-chapped lips rough against skin that had gone too long without a day’s work.

“I wonder,” Dragan began, his voice ragged and lewd as he dropped to his knees “what people would say, seeing us like this. . .” Weathered hands pressed Dorian against the cave floor once more, the leather armor and exposed skin scraping against the stone with every shove of the man’s hips against Dorian’s ass. Those hands moved up the mage’s strong stomach, up to his chest, smoothing beneath the flaps of his armor before wrapping around his exposed shoulder in an iron grip, and forcing Dorian down even harder around his cock, dragging even more of those filthy Tevene curses from the man’s lips.

“. . . The ‘Herald of Andraste’ taking a Tevinter mage on the ground, fucking him mad.” He accentuated his last words with short, shallow thrusts, before pulling out almost completely. There followed a momentary pause, Dragan watching as Dorian’s tarnished gold eyes flicked up, heavy-lidded and unfocused. No jokes, no witty remarks. The Tevinter’s usually clever tongue could conjure nothing save from the pleasured groans pushed out with each slam of the Inquisitor’s hips.

“I wonder-” With one long, languid stroke, Dragan pushed his cock completely in, the head sliding hard against the spot that made the mage’s toes curl as he sucked his lower lip into his mouth, “what your father would say.”

That did it; Dorian’s building orgasm hit him with brutal force, tearing through him until the nails digging into Dragan’s flesh drew blood. Cursing beneath his breath, the mage shuddered as he came with his mouth hanging open and his mind spinning. Dragan pushed into him once, twice, before stilling, his chest rising and falling rapidly. They braced themselves against each other for a moment, catching their breath and listening to the steady rainfall outside, the rhythmic crashing of the ocean against the rocky shore.

Without any words, the Inquisitor slumped against the man, pressing their lips together in a languid, sloppy kiss that made Dorian’s heart beat even faster in his chest. They remained like that for a long moment, until Dragan pulled reluctantly away, reaching for the half-dried drape that had been placed near the fire. It was uncomfortably damp, but it served well to clean them up.

“I was thinking about what you said.” Dorian began, shattering the silence neither even noticed had settled around them. His voice sounded rather grim, something which made Dragan pause as he fastened up his breeches.

“Oh?” The Inquisitor turned to his companion with mild concern.

“About what my father would say about this. I think, perhaps, I’ll write him a song.’Ode to My Father’s Besmirched Legacy’!” Dorian splayed his fingers out dramatically, a rakish grin spread across his features, “Not to worry, I won’t include any gratuitous detail.”

“Oh no, I think you should get right into the dirt of it. More scandalous, no?” The Inquisitor snorted, glad to see the mage was just being his usual, witty self.

“Fine, but I refuse to be held responsible for any subsequent heart attacks, or threats on your life.” The mage countered. Dragan merely scoffed, tying off the laces tight, and smoothing down the leather of his armor.

“I’m wanted dead by more people than I can count on both hands, one of which is an ancient Tevinter magister-turned-Darkspawn bent on world-domination. Your father doesn’t exactly frighten me.”

Dorian swallowed, looking away for just a moment, his smile faltering. A crack in the facade, just enough to make Dragan’s heart sink.

“That makes one of us, Lord Inquisitor.”

Dragan pursed his lips, walking over to where Dorian was. He crossed his arms, looking down at the mage.

“That’s not the Dorian I know.” He challenged, watching a look of surprise flash across the Tevinter’s features, before a soft smile settled in.

“And what is  _your_ Dorian like?” The man responded, his words soft but with an air of brooding that did not suit him.

The Inquisitor took a seat next to the mage, taking a moment to gather his thoughts--he wasn’t as witty and silver-tongued as the mage, and didn’t want to make a fool himself--until he opened his mouth to speak, looking the other man hard in the eyes.

 A mistake; his tongue felt dry and heavy in his mouth, overwhelmed with feelings he’d been keeping at bay. He pressed his lips shut, indulging a moment to watch the glowing patterns of firelight ripple across the man’s tanned skin, dancing even more wildly in his eyes. Dragan had never encountered such perfection in a human, and was even half-inclined to believe he was actually bargaining off his soul to a desire demon, as well as half-disgusted that the thought didn’t disturb him as much as it properly should. He had almost forgotten that Dorian was awaiting an answer, until a low snort from the mage broke him from his trance. The Inquisitor frowned, forcing himself to look away and recollect everything he had planned to say.

 “Well, first of all, he isn’t fearful - cautious, maybe, but brave.” Dragan began tentatively, feeling those eyes on him, “and he’s righteous, yet realistic; and merciful, but never weak-”

 “If you’re trying to seduce me again, you’re doing it masterfully.” The mage interrupted, a wide, lazy smirk across his face as he all but basked in the Inquisitor’s admiration.

 “- and an insufferable arse.” Dragan finished, cutting his eyes to Dorian, who bit back a laugh.

 “You know I just wanted to hear you say it.” The mage said, leaning in towards the other man. Dragan gave him a wary look, before his eyes betrayed him by flicking down to the Tevinter’s lips. Dorian’s tongue--a hot and treacherous thing that had been shoved down his throat and more only a short while ago--swept subtly over his lips, which pulled into smile. He saw the corners of them curl further, the dimples deepen as the sharp pain in his chest deepened with them; again, he wanted to turn away.

 “You won’t be hearing it twice from me” He lied and lifted his hand to Dorian’s neck, swallowing the urge and brushing his lips across the other’s, a sigh of resignation escaping as he kissed him once. When he pulled back, he did so only just enough to coax a response from the other man. He waited.

 After only a second of exchanging balmy breaths, the mage kissed him back; opting to stay silent as the storm outside finally began to wane.

 

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever Dragon Age fic! I am ridiculously smitten with these two.
> 
> I tried to balance out the whole 'dominance' aspect of their relationship, so as not to make either play into the "dominant top" and "submissive bottom" cliches. 
> 
> Feel free to comment and leave kudos c:


End file.
